I woke up later than I planned, the kind of late that only happens after a night of absolute exhaustion. Eight in the morning felt like a small luxury in my Jakarta home. I dragged myself out of bed and headed straight to the bathroom, still half-dreaming, still feeling the weight of yesterday clinging to my shoulders.
By nine, I slipped next door to pick up the bread I had ordered. I’m not even a bread person, really, but the auntie next door makes the kind that somehow tastes like comfort. Of course, I couldn’t just grab the bread and sprint home. Neighborly life doesn’t work like that. There were stories to exchange, warm laughter to share, the kind of long, winding conversations that make you forget the minutes passing.
It was already ten when I finally walked home, arms full of bread, heart a little lighter. Breakfast was waiting. My husband had bought chicken porridge with cheese, and it tasted so good.
A little before noon, our guests arrived straight from the airport. They had flown all the way from the Netherlands: a young man about to marry an Indonesian woman, and his sweet, polite parents who radiated warmth even in their jetlag. After a home tour and all the practical explanations that come with hosting, we handed them the key and let them settle in.
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We drove to Alam Sutera for lunch, reaching just before one. Solaria is not exactly my favorite, but a free voucher can make even an average meal feel acceptable. By 2.30 we were in church, letting the sermon wash over us. The message was simple and piercing: The center of our home should always be God. To know Him. To choose Him. To live out Christlike values. To rely on Him. And the reminder stayed with me long after the service ended: A blessing without Christ becomes nothing but a burden.
Afterward, we dropped our youngest back at the dorm, and then my husband and I escaped for a long, needed massage. My feet were screaming after two days of nonstop house prep. Ninety minutes later, every knot had softened. My body felt like it could finally breathe again.
Dinner was just the two of us, like we were dating again, sharing pork dishes at Pasmod BSD before stopping by Go Fruit to bring home some fruit for later. On the drive back, I asked him what he wanted to do after we got home. He said, “Rest. I’m tired.” His idea of resting? Playing Sudoku. How does that even qualify as rest? My brain hurts just looking at all those numbers. I never understand the joy of that game.
But maybe that’s the beauty of days like this. Everyone rests differently. Everyone finds comfort in their own corner of the world. Mine is slow mornings, warm bread from a neighbor, sermons that ground me, massages that melt away the chaos, dinner dates with the man I chose, and the quiet drive home at the end of a long Sunday.
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